


Containment

by SableGear0



Category: Metroid Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Metroid Prime 3, Disasters, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Like seriously heavy angst, On Hiatus, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, author doesn't know dick about military stuff, it's ok everything is messed up anyway, unfinished work, waiting for inspiration to return
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:34:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23500915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SableGear0/pseuds/SableGear0
Summary: Extreme Canon Divergence following Metroid Prime 3: Corruption. An invading force has struck the capital city on Daiban, the headquarters of the Galactic Federation. With the thing leading the invaders defeated, the remnants of the Federation's armies struggle to reclaim the ruined city before it falls entirely to the mindless, scattered hostile creatures.Adam Malkovich struggles to keep his health and sanity intact in the face of a personal loss, the ever-present threat of the phazon-fueled invaders, and the stress of commanding a sliver of the Federation's fractured forces.! Unfinished work: Originally started in 2013. Currently on hiatus/not being worked on. !





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Another reminder/warning that this work is Unfinished! At time of posting I am not actively working on this fic, but wanted to share the parts that were relatively presentable. (Hopefully this will impel me to finish the dang thing one day, but we'll see.) As an old and unfinished work, readers may note that the style differs from some of my other more recent works.
> 
> Please enjoy, and moreso than ever, please leave a comment if you did!

He staggered over the broken terrain, a concrete jungle after an atomic forest fire. He was searching, on the hunt, though unused to being the Hunter. That had always been _her_ job. But she had come back as an enemy, walked through the silver streets a blue-black angel of death, cutting man, machine and monument alike to jagged pieces.

Now that angel had run out of breath. Out of time. It was his turn to play the Hunter, and _she_ was his quarry.

She sat amidst the rubble, sat where she had fallen, staring into space. She had no strength left to fight or flee, the tempest she unleashed had tired her. The crunch of rubble under his boots drew her gaze and she half-turned to look upon her old friend.

She smiled at him. The sort of smile one offers a pet who fails at a trick but wins its master’s heart, a smile of well-meaning condescension. And tiredness. And emptiness. Relief. Everything behind that smile came through in her voice, the quiet sigh in which she spoke his name.

“Adam...”

He had long abandoned his rifle, favouring the heavy pistol he kept as a sidearm. He took a step towards her, drew the weapon, pressed the barrel to the center of her forehead. He could not find the will to speak, however, or to pull the trigger.

She was still smiling at him. Blue-black veins, the stains of corruption, criss-crossed her features, but her eyes remained unchanged. Still blue, deep blue with just a hint of green. The cold fire there had gone out. The colour was flat, dim, lifeless. Still her voice was a mirror.

“I missed you...”

He swallowed hard, the burnt air making him choke. “I missed you, too.”

“I didn’t think I’d see you again...” Her smile widened, lips parting, and her eyes showed a flicker of life for an instant. There might have been tears in the faded blue. “But I’m happy- I’m happy I did...happy it’s like this.”

The weapon had been a gift between them so many years ago. Delicate etching on its flawless chrome barrel spoke its name: _Sabre._ The angel’s blue eyes reflected in that immaculate chrome.

Her voice sounded, and his responded in kind. Whispers that belied the truth behind them.

“I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.”

A third voice sounded. _Sabre_ spoke a single word that laid her out flat in the dust. Behind them, two figures had been advancing through the dust and debris. A Captain and his Lieutenant broke into a shared jog to reach the unwilling hunter.

“Hey, Malkovich!” the Lieutenant.

“You found her,” the Captain and his follower were stopped by the sight of the fallen angel. “Sweet Jesus...”

Adam turned away, walking back the way they had come. _Sabre_ slipped from his grasp and fell to the dust, no longer untarnished. The pair watched him go.

The Lieutenant looked from _Sabre_ to its victim. “Geez...never thought it would be that easy.”

“It wasn’t.” The Captain left a respectful pause. “Call in the cleanup team, let’s get her out of here, make sure she’s safe.”

“Aye, sir.”

* * *

Charlie Camp lay a few hours walk away from the desolation, at the edge of the city. A company and a half worth of soldiers from differing corps hid in the lee of a damaged warehouse, nesting among the crates and catwalks, perched among the tall steel shelves floored with wooden shipping pallets. Adam reached the camp well before the other two officers, found himself a quiet corner and simply sat, trying his best not to think.

Somewhere along the trek back he had stopped to wash the speckling of blood from his hand and arm. It had come off like gluey ink from a burst pen. The sensation of it on his skin remained, the sticky tightness of the liquid contagion. Would that madness that had driven his angel to destruction now settle in him?

“Probably not, though...”

Adam looked up, “Excuse me?”

“Oh, Commander Malkovich, you’re back.” This second speaker, a woman in most of a grey Marines’ armoursuit smiled at him, “I didn’t see you down there.” She offered a hand that pulled him from his niche between two crates.

The first speaker was not human, but Acaprian. A peculiar humanoid with a long, angular head, pointed ears, short horns and hooves; though it should not be said to one’s face, an overall goatlike appearance. His coat a simple brown-white bicolour like a tuxedo cat’s, his horns modest nubs atop his head. He wore parts of the same slick sable Special-Ops suit that Adam had in a similar patchwork.

“What were you saying before?” to his own ears Adam’s voice sounded strange, lacking either volume or force.

“Oh,” the Acaprian’s ears twitched, “Jen was asking if there was somewhere we could find stuff to top off the food reserves. We figured the farms east of the city might still have stuff but that’s a tricky issue, we can’t just go taking stuff, right?” Adam shook his head, the Acaprian continued, concerned “You got back before Captain Holmes, right? Do you know if he has the guys with him?”

Adam shook his head again, “No, I came back on my own. Is Callista around?”

“I haven’t seen her, I think she’s out with the scouts.”

“Thanks.” Adam sat back down and stared at the floor. The Marine and her Acaprian friend wandered off, cued by his action.

He leaned back against the crates. Everything felt sore. He had walked for hours to get here. He rubbed his face with both hands, his forehead and the corners of his eyes. Probably a bad idea but he was tired. Tired and ill.

Things were quiet here and it was sickening. The noise of destruction, then the hush of desolation. And now the soft hum of safety. It made him nauseous. He was thinking and he shouldn’t be. That made him nauseous too. Time would take that away, hopefully. It should.

* * *

  
Claws. Claws and spines. And teeth. He had to get away from the claws and the spines and the teeth. They bounded after him and slashed at him like spiny blue wolves in toothy blue packs.

It was like the ground didn’t want him to run. Rocks jumped up and tripped him when he tried to sprint, before long he was reduced to a staggering jog. Were the claws still there? The spines and the teeth? He heard them rattle on the swollen concrete. They had to be there.

Right?

He stopped at a monolith of sorts, turned, set his back to it, fumbled for his weapon. They weren’t there. The claws and the spines and the teeth and the blue were all gone. The dusty dun of the broken city remained unbroken by any other colour. Good. That was good.

And things went black.

Then they were black and white. When he opened his eyes a round goaty face filled his vision. An Acaprian inspected him, her white coat marked piebald as if someone had flicked ink from a pen or dabbed her with a dry brush. Her ears turned separately; two pointed radar dishes scanning for sound as she looked him over. He felt her touch his arm. Her voice was low and strong.

“You from Bravo, kid?” He made a noise that might have been an affirmation. She nodded, ears turned forward, “Good. Take a nap, we’ll get you somewhere safe.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another reminder/warning that this work is Unfinished! At time of posting I am not actively working on this fic, but wanted to share the parts that were relatively presentable. (Hopefully this will impel me to finish the dang thing one day, but we'll see.) As an old and unfinished work, readers may note that the style differs from some of my other more recent works.
> 
> Please enjoy, and moreso than ever, please leave a comment if you did!

The scouting party returned with their injured charge, shortly following the return of Captain Holmes, his Lieutenant Merzlyakov, and their own party of two-score mixed soldiers. Evening was beginning to bloody the sky, the orange light filtered through the dust-frosted skylights and the cracks of the boarded windows.

Adam had remained in much the same place since his return from the city, occasionally rising and wandering to stretch, but always retreating to a quiet corner after. He walked along the edge of a makeshift wall; the damaged face of the warehouse had been fortified with crates stacked in a brick-like pattern. All of these crates had been pulled from the massive storage shelves, providing building material and freeing the space to be used as impromptu bunks.

Before he could retreat to this shared aerie, Adam was intercepted by Merzlyakov, the lieutenant from the field.

“’Ey, Malkovich,” he tipped his head to where a crowd had gathered, soldiers sharing their evening meal. “Why don’t you come get something to eat?” Adam began to turn away. “Look, I know you’re probably not hungry after- well, at least _try_ and eat something, starving yourself isn’t going to help any.”

“Konstantin...” Adam was the only one who could manage to say his full name. He turned to him fully, looking him over. The lieutenant had dark eyes and scruffy dark hair; like everyone in the camp he wasn’t well-shaven.

“At the very least come sit with us?”

“Alright...Thanks.”

Planks and boxes made convenient modular furniture for clever stranded soldiers. Now they were arranged into a long, level line like a banquet table. However, the fare was much more modest than this. The pre-packed rations came in a solid bar, fuel, not food. Edible, but by no means appetizing.

Adam took an empty spot across from Konstantin Merzlyakov who tossed him a bar and settled next to a Marine Private- who immediately took to complaining about the food. Evidently the two knew each other.

“Hey, Merlin,” the nickname most of the Lieutenant’s peers used for him, “You ever think about why these things taste like all the parts of a meal at once?”

“It’s because they _are_ all the parts of a meal at once.”

Someone from further down the ‘table’ laughed, “Yeah, get it together, Nate.”

“Oh...” Private Nathan Starr mumbled around a mouthful. “They’re still awful...”

“Be thankful we have clean water, then.” Konstantin nodded to Adam, “You going to eat that or just look at it?”

Adam opened the bar and broke it in half for an answer, leaving the unwanted portion in its wrapper on the tabletop. He picked at his half while the others talked.

“You find anything new out there, Merlin?”

“Oh, we _found_ some stuff-” he stalled when Adam coughed. “Usual kind of stuff, though. You’ll have to ask the Captain for specifics.”

“No, I meant did _you_ find anything? Y’know, scraps of stuff?”

“Oh, yeah, I did. Check this out,” Konstantin dug through his pack, which he was seldom without, and produced a charred piece of otherwise glossy paper. He smoothed it out on the tabletop. “Found this one pinned up in a wrecked building. Somebody’s vacation fantasy I bet.”

The image the page presented was a photograph of a lush forested river delta taken from a perspective out over the sea. White sand formed an elegant fan from the river’s turquoise mouth and swept along the tree line in the arcs of a broad beach.

“Amazon?”

“Dunno, could be anywhere. That’s the beauty of it.”

“It’s not _here_.” Adam murmured. The kind of silence which follows a broken glass followed that. Konstantin returned his prize to his bag and dug for a new conversation topic.

“Well I _also_ found... _these_. In a tool box.” A deck of cards, complete with well-worn box, was set on the table.

Nathan nearly jumped for joy, “Alright! We can replace the deck that Emers lost!”

“You mean the deck he _burnt_ ,” a female voice interjected.

“Jen! I thought you were on my side! Besides, it was an accident!” The Emers in question was the tuxedoed Acaprian.

Konstantin waved away the tension, “It doesn’t matter who burned what and why, we’ve got a deck now. Who’s up for a game tonight?” A short chorus greeted his offer. “What about you, Malkovich, you in? I’ve heard from Captain Holmes you used to play poker with the other officers. He said you were pretty good. Feel up to a game?”

A pause before Adam shrugged, not looking so listless as he felt. “Why not?”

Within the hour, Konstantin and company were perched together on one of the flats in the shelf-bunk system, ground level. The Lieutenant, Private Nathan, the acaprian Cyro Emers, his friend Private Jen, a female Corporal everyone referred to as “Kitty”, and Adam sat in a circle in the partly-enclosed shelf frame. Federation Marines, Army and Special Ops all gathered in simple harmony.

Konstantin shuffled his new deck, precise and practiced movements. “Cards are well worn,” an observation to himself, “won’t be slippery. _So,_ ” now to the group, “Kitty and Adam, you’re new to our little game. It’s standard Texas Hold ‘Em, we keep score on paper. Everyone starts at two-fifty and we wager whatever amount. There’s a little more math involved but it works pretty well. I’ll just be dealer since we’ve got a bigger group this time around.” He began to deal counter-clockwise. “First blind starts on my left, goes around counter-clockwise each hand. There we go folks. Place your bets!”

The game flowed smoothly. Every player including Adam, surprising himself, was in fairly high spirits throughout.

Kitty lay on her stomach, legs kicked forward at the knees, grimacing at her hand each round, failing to maintain her poker-face. She pursed or chewed her lips incessantly, no real tell to be found, just poor control.

Cyro had a bad tell, and for that reason he quickly began losing; the acaprian’s mobile ears had a mind of their own and strong opinions about the cards he was dealt. He chalked his losses up to bad luck.

Jen had a face of stone but poor judgement in her bets. Too high scared the others into folding, too low netted her not enough. She, too, blamed her luck, claiming Cyro was rubbing off on her.

Nathan and Adam were an even match. Both inscrutable players with a flexible strategy; a conservative game with occasional pushes for high bets. Adam tended to bet highest on middling hands, scaring off anyone having better cards with a high stake and tempting those with lower hands to call his bluff.

Late in the game Cyro was out, Jen was clinging with the lowest winnings, Nathan next lowest thanks to a risky move in a previous hand but still fairly safe, Kitty had profited from Nathan’s loss and sat with the highest winnings, Adam close behind her.

Konstantin dealt the starting cards and each player eyed their hand critically. Kitty sucked on her bottom lip, Jen glowered, hinting at displeasure, Nathan remained unmoved. Adam blinked: Queen of diamonds, ace of spades. It felt wrong somehow.

The first blind fell to Kitty, she paid out a modest amount in deference to Jen, who came after and had little to spare on forced bets. The Marine seemed to consider folding for a moment before paying out the second blind, by default marginally higher than the first. No one raised.

The next three cards were laid out, the flop. Konstantin wore a knowing smile. All three were clubs: six, seven, Jack.

Adam looked at his hand again. Queen of diamonds, ace of spades. Why wasn’t that right? He seemed to have trouble holding them. He was tired, that was it.

Cursory bets were placed, nothing ambitious. Jen watched the score page rather than the cards, looking hungry for more points. Konstantin dealt again. Two of hearts.

Adam nearly wretched. It wasn’t right.

Konstantin watched him closely, watched him take a deep breath as Jen pushed the bet higher and the others raised their eyebrows but matched. Adam matched and said nothing to the dealer’s gaze.

Breath was held as the last card was laid out. Queen of clubs. Jen shifted where she sat but waited on the others. Adam felt sick. He set his cards face down and leaned into the middle to write his full value onto the scoring page that was the pot.

“All-in.” His voice shivered. He’d had enough.

“ _What?_ ” Nathan’s first break of otherwise flawlessly controlled emotion.

“I’m all-in.”

“Well _damn_...” Nathan weighed the number he had been presented with. Even if he went all-in he was technically owing if he wanted to match that bet. Still, it was a lot to be won. “Guess I’m all-in too...”

A total bet was the consensus. Kitty had enough to match without spending everything she had, but to lose would put her far behind. Everyone agreed it was to be the last hand of the game.

As hands were beginning to be revealed, Adam walked away. Konstantin silenced the others’ objection by waving them down. The last hand was scored normally otherwise.

Jen at last let herself look smug, “What’d you have, Nathan?”

“Three-of-a-kind, all twos,” he grunted. “Kitty?”

“Only if we were playing Cribbage,” she showed an eight and a five, shrugged. “What about you, Jen?”

“I got a flush, all clubs,” she declared, showing an ace and a three of the same suit. A timid pause, then, “What about Adam?”

Konstantin reached over and flipped the abandoned hand. “Pair of Queens...Well it was our last hand anyway. Another game or should we call it a night?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another reminder/warning that this work is Unfinished! At time of posting I am not actively working on this fic, but wanted to share the parts that were relatively presentable. (Hopefully this will impel me to finish the dang thing one day, but we'll see.) As an old and unfinished work, readers may note that the style differs from some of my other more recent works.
> 
> Please enjoy, and moreso than ever, please leave a comment if you did!

At the end of their second game night had fallen in full. Konstantin gathered up the cards and vacated the flat where they had been playing. It was someone else’s sleeping space, after all. He made the climb up the metal frame of the shelf-bunks, two more levels up to the third tier along a makeshift ladder, then three columns of flats over along the inside to his own nesting place. He sat down on his bed roll with a sigh, trying not to sound too satisfied lest he disturb his flat-mate.

“You going to be alright, Malkovich?”

Adam moved only to breathe, mostly hidden inside a sleeping bag. “What do you think, Merzlyakov?” the slow, muffled yet edged reply.

Konstantin jiggled the box of cards, “I think you might have won that hand if you were a bit more gradual about it.” Greeted with silence, he pulled his bag to him and set about organizing his meagre loot. “I know that’s not the point. I know. But really, are you going to be okay?”

Still no answer. The Lieutenant retrieved a small tin from its hiding place in a girder that supported the flat above them. It rattled with paper and small metal clips. In the field he collected scraps of things; photos, articles from magazines or newspapers, anything printed, and stored them in the little tin. A tiny cross-section of the city that had so quickly been brought to ruin. He took a moment to admire the picture he had found of the river delta.

“...Do you think it’s morbid? Me collecting stuff like this?” There might have been a sigh for an answer. Konstantin smoothed the picture. “I’ve always wanted to visit this sort of place. I’ve only ever been on vacation in places with snow, I want to try something different.” He gave the photo one last once-over before carefully folding, paperclipping and storing it with the others, hiding the tin once more. “Once all this is over, I want to go some place warm. Maybe to a resort.” He looked around at the shelf-bunks, the crates and planks below. “Think I’ve had enough of camping...”

Konstantin lay on his front, folding his arms on the edge of the flat, looking down and around. Each flat in the shelves slept at least two, three for those who were smaller or willing to get cozy. There was no rhyme or reason as to who slept where apart from those who were afraid of heights being given priority on the lower levels. There were four tiers in all, counting the ground level, and two layers of shelves backed against each other, each one open right through from one side to the other.

A murmur of “lights out” ran through the shelves. Flashlights, lamps and other lights were switched off, leaving the aerie and most of the floor below in darkness. Konstantin clicked off the small lantern suspended in their flat.

He shed a few layers and settled among his blankets. “You hear what Callista brought back with the scouting party?” he whispered. The sound of shifting fabric greeted his question. Adam was listening. “They found an injured guy, I’ve heard he’s from Bravo camp. He was in bad shape when they brought him in, so no one’s allowed near him yet. Captain Holmes wants to talk to him ASAP, though. Find out what happened to Bravo, why we lost track of them.”

Silence followed, for a time. The Lieutenant was beginning to doze when Adam spoke up. His voice was flat and hoarse.

“Konstantin...?”

“Hm?”

“They picked her up...right...?”

Konstantin rolled over to face his flat-mate. Adam lay on his front, chin resting on folded arms, hidden up to his shoulders in his sleeping bag. He was looking down, unfocussed.

“The cleanup crew...She’s safe, right...?”

“Huh? Oh- yeah. Yeah...They picked her up and took her with them. I didn’t see but- they left with something big...”

Adam nodded. For a moment he seemed satisfied, when his eyes began to glaze with tears his hid his face against his arms. A heavy breath, then, “...Just couldn’t stand the thought of her laying out there in the dust...”

“Aye...She’s in good hands now...You know, you should talk to Holmes, take a few days off. We can manage without you. Hang around with Callista while she’s back...uh...” Konstantin trailed off, feeling everything he said only making things worse. “Just- take it easy...’Night.”

* * *

Grey predawn. The warehouse was coated in a dim monochrome light, it fell like veils from the skylights, leaked like smoke from the windows.

Merzlyakov didn’t snore. It was one of the things Adam liked about him. He stepped gingerly around his quiet flatmate and descended from the aerie to the floor. He needed to move; his body couldn’t decide whether it was tired or wide awake from too little sleep. He wandered the warehouse. There were few early risers, more sentries from the previous night’s final shift.

Captain Holmes was also awake. He sat by one of the boarded windows, watching through a crack with a pair of binoculars. On Adam’s approach, he lowered the lenses and nodded to him.

“You’re up early.” No response. He gestured to a carafe on a table nearby. “Coffee?”

“Is it that instant stuff?”

“’Fraid so.” The Captain went back to his vigil.

“I’ll pass, thanks...What are you watching?”

“Spotted a couple of those screaming things creeping around, wanted to keep an eye on them. Want to take a look?”

Holmes offered the binoculars. Adam took them and crouched at the window, following his direction.

“To the left there, pretty far out. There’s about three of them lurking out there. At least they’re keeping their distance.”

Two, no, three thin figures swayed in the dim, hazy distance. They moved with no apparent purpose, milling about, lurching like the walking dead. Adam knew what they looked like up close; emaciated humanoids made blue-black and leathery from a death by phazon, bones jutting from them like spikes, features sunken and twisted.

“Some of the men call them ‘banshees’ but that doesn’t seem quite right,” Holmes grunted, “I thought banshees were supposed to be pretty. Damn phazon-zombies if you ask me.”

“How long have they been out there?”

“Don’t know, I got up about a half hour ago. They were there when I first checked. Think they’ll make a move?”

“Not if it’s just the three of them. They’ll probably wander off once it gets brighter.” Adam handed the binoculars back and leaned on the table.

“I hope you’re right.”

“Who was the casualty the scouts brought back? Is he from Bravo?”

“Don’t know, the medics won’t let me near him. Could be a while before he’s able to talk.”

A lull; Holmes set down his lenses and helped himself to the coffee, Adam picked at the wooden tabletop, gouging around a knot with his nail. He must have sighed or made some other gesture as Holmes suddenly became alert to his mood.

“Malkovich...look...” he glanced at his coffee, then back at Adam, “I don’t want to say ‘thank-you,’ I know that won’t sit well with you. But you did good out there. I know it wasn’t easy, but you did some good. You shouldn’t bug yourself about it.”

Adam flinched. He pulled a splinter from his hand using his teeth and spat it out. “Merzlyakov said I should try to take some time off. Thought I should clear it with you.”

Holmes sighed, waffled, “Eh, you make it hard for me to say ‘no.’ I know how you feel, but we need everyone we’ve got right now. Tell you what, I’ll let you sit out of field duty for a bit, but if you’re going to be here, you’re going to be doing something. Can’t have idle hands.”

A nod. Holmes continued, “Can I put you in charge of organizing scouting and recovery parties? You’re good at putting teams together. Maybe you could come up with a better system for mapping out where we know is safe and where we haven’t spent enough time. Johnson’s system is awful-”

“ _Charlie Camp, come in! Oh God - Charlie do you copy?_ ”

Holmes lunged for the radio, dropping his coffee to seize the microphone. He leaned hard on the crate where the receiver sat, matching the urgency of the choked voice that had hailed them. “We copy, caller-”

“ _Oh thank God! Charlie, it’s Cleanup, we’re-_ ” the voice became faint, consulting some other nearby: “ _how many...?_ ” The reply was indistinct, but the caller became agitated when he returned to the mic on his end, “ _We’re surrounded- those screamers, banshees, whatever- at least forty of them and they’re close. They’ll be on us any second now. Requesting backup, please, anyone you can spare! I know the sun’s barely up but Alpha’s too far away and Bravo...”_

“Copy, Cleanup,” Holmes became businesslike in an instant. To Adam he made a circling gesture with one upright finger: roundup, get everyone who’s awake together. “We’re assembling our morning guard and we’ll be on the way ASAP. Adam...” he glanced to the Spec Ops Commander, waved for his attention.

Adam had whistled to a nearby sentry and repeated the roundup gesture, it was being passed along now, those leaving duty rousing their friends and gearing them up still half asleep. He glanced back to Holmes.

“How many?” Holmes pointed to the mic, he still had Cleanup Camp on the line.

Adam did a quick head count of who was moving. “About twenty.”

Holmes gave him a thumbs-up and relayed the message. From afar the voice was unclear but marginally relieved. Adam geared up quickly and shepherded the drowsy reinforcements to the warehouse exit.

“Sorry, Malkovich,” Holmes called after him, “Looks like you’ll get your break when you come back!”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another reminder/warning that this work is Unfinished! At time of posting I am not actively working on this fic, but wanted to share the parts that were relatively presentable. (Hopefully this will impel me to finish the dang thing one day, but we'll see.) As an old and unfinished work, readers may note that the style differs from some of my other more recent works.
> 
> Please enjoy, and moreso than ever, please leave a comment if you did!

The air was cool, and if that didn’t do it the sudden rev of an engine woke those not fully alert. The mid-sized transport backed out of the shed in which it had been hidden; five seats, six wheels, a mounted gun fore and aft, and a back bed with space enough for the group.

Everyone piled in. There was a scuffle over who got an actual seat and thus the freedom to nap on the short trip. Someone yelled “Drive it like you stole it, Kitty!” Someone else laughed. The engine revved again, and the group was underway.

Adam sat in the bed, near the front with his back to the cab. Someone asked if sitting backwards like that made him dizzy. He didn’t hear, he was looking at the sky. The clouds smeared upwards from the horizon, darker than the sky behind them. Necrotic flesh on a bruised body. Sitting backwards did make him dizzy.

He turned to lean over the side, arms folded on the rail, eyes closed to feel the wind. It had been a nice night, but the air smelled like rain yet to come-

Voices behind him, indignant and laughing, a scuffle and a thump in the truck bed. He looked over his shoulder. Three marines held down one of their own who wore the blush and grin of guilty humour. She tried to push them off, tried to laugh off her bad joke, “I wasn’t gonna, I swear!”

He turned away again. He would have deserved it if she had bothered. It would have been funny, too, if the fall at this speed wouldn’t have been lethal. They argued behind him, something about Spec Ops never screwing around. He looked back to the sky.

Sunlight was healing the predawn bruise now. But the air smelled like rain yet to come, the day would be overcast later on, drizzly probably. He wasn’t in the mood for rain.

The transport bucked as it took a bump. He braced himself back from the rail. That would _not_ have been funny. He tapped the back window of the cab, “Kitty, slow down! We’re getting close.”

The engine roar faded to a growl, faded to the crunch of tires on gravelly concrete. Adam sighted the Cleanup base over the cab roof. “Snipers?”

Four rose to ready crouches. He motioned one to the front, she steadied her weapon on the roof and scanned the base.

“There’s some damage to the building. Screamers are bunched up outside around the doors, thirty plus. Cleanup’s keeping them busy.”

Adam motioned to the other sharpshooters, “Snipers stay back, pick your targets and thin them out, that should draw them off and let both sides know we’re here. Once we close in, change out for short range and catch up. Three of you stay at the front here, one come with my group around the back. I want six plus a sniper with me.”

The opening rounds shredded their targets. The screamers were numerous but by no means sturdy. The snipers kept up a steady rate of fire; the cracking of hand-held thunder following deadly rainfall.

Adam and Kitty closed the gap, bringing mid-ranged assault rifles into play, a signal for the snipers to begin to follow.

Now the groups met: the screamers thinned, close-range tactics adopted. Burst fire, shotguns and rifle butts broke up the cluster, Cleanup troops were free from their stalemate. While Kitty cleared the front, Adam took his small group around the back of the base.

More screamers. Of course. He knew it was never that simple. A diversion?

Controlled bursts and shotgun fire. Clear the space.

Which end was the diversion? The damage was worse here: a hole open in the base’s concrete. Drag marks. He downed a screamer lurching away from the base some twenty meters away.

Where was his group?

Turning to look earned him a punch in the back. Turning back, withered black flesh pulled back from teeth, an open mouth shrieked until jammed with a rifle butt. Adam reeled. That sound- another shriek, just out of reach -it was too much.

He lunged for the second screamer to quiet it like the first, which shrieked again. Spiked walls of sound pressed him, crushed him and his sense to pull the trigger of his weapon. Adam swung his rifle like a bat.

He felt a cry of anger, but didn’t hear it. There was nothing to hear beyond the sonic discord. White noise and black blood. Bones and teeth broke. Perhaps another tactician may have thought himself above bludgeoning his enemies into pulp.

He stopped when he lost his grip on his weapon. His whole form shook. Reverberant echoes of those screams were trapped in his head, in his body. He had to stop them before he rattled himself to death inside his armour.

Adam knelt down slow, pressed his hands to the ground. Gluey black ichor covered his arms, marked the concrete under his hands. Now round specks of red fell in between. He could smell it, practically taste it. Was it his?

* * *

Something bright fought with the door of its cage, the rattle and squeak of metal only a distant ring. Now it was a gridline cote full of doves. They muttered like busy people, all grey and patchy. Armour or just plumage? Now it was an image of the city etched in half-molten brass. The buildings burned and fell as the metal melted away.

Adam woke slowly. An unpleasant, unbalanced sensation of floating caught him. He felt nauseous. Bright light and an oppressively clean smell, a distinct lack of sound. Someone stood just out of easy view, they seemed to be talking but he couldn’t hear.

He caught their eye when he tried to move. Whoever it was approached and held something up for him to see. At first he turned away, the white square was too bright and blurry, he couldn’t look right at it. He shut his eyes for a moment then blinked until words came into view on the square:

_Relax._

_Try to keep your eyes open._

It was more than tempting to do just the opposite, but now that he’d read it, it was hard to disobey. The words helped him focus; he was conscious enough to read, that was good. The doctor set the square, a small whiteboard, on his bedside table before moving to some other task.

Adam spent a few moments slowly surveying the room, breathing deep to stave off dizziness. He was lying propped up in a hospital bed, Cleanup’s infirmary. Other casualties were attended nearby. On reflection he was glad for the lack of sound.

More comfortable, he lifted his hands from his sides: an IV in his left arm- he put it back down, nothing on his right. He felt his face: most everything as it had been, dried blood by his nose, bandages at the sides of his head. He laid back, not content but more assured now of what had happened. Nothing to do but wait.

The world passed in eerie silence. Some injured soldiers brought in, either on their own feet or stretchers, a few let out, patched like old jackets, doctors and nurses consulting clipboards. Kitty appeared briefly and lingered in the doorway until a nurse chased her off. One of the sharpshooters among the reinforcements had been of Vvargen descent; he saw the unfortunate sniper wander out with his arm in a sling. He didn’t recognize most of the casualties, Cleanup’s personnel, not his.

He was bored well before the doctor returned, gently disconnected the IV, wiped off the whiteboard and wrote: _I’d like to ask you some questions._

Adam nodded. The doctor erased the board and wrote again: _Are you experiencing any pain or discomfort?_ He shook his head.

Next question: _Do you feel any numbness?_ He shook his head again.

 _Do you feel dizzy?_ A shake no, for now.

 _Do you feel nauseous?_ A shake.

 _Any loss of vision?_ A shake.

_Any loss of hearing?_ A nod.

The doctor nodded back and wrote something long this time. _Your inner ears have been damaged, the deafness and loss of balance will only be temporary. It should take you a few days to recover. Capt. Holmes knows you’ll be here for a while._

He read it carefully and nodded yet again. The doctor wiped the board clean and offered it to him with the marker.

Adam took the board and propped it on his knees to write: _Were any of the Charlie crew MIA/KIA?_ It was the doctor’s turn to shake her head. The cap of the marker had a fabric pad for an eraser. Adam wiped away a few words, then: _Are any of the Charlie crew badly injured?_ Another shake.

He tapped the marker on the edge of the board. What else could he ask? _What was in the IV?_ He handed the board back for a written answer.

_Saline to bring you around. You didn’t lose much blood, you didn’t need a transfusion._

He was running out of things to ask and she was starting to look impatient. _When can I talk with the base’s officers?_

_Not sure, later today at soonest, probably busy with reports._ She seemed loath to hand the board back but he waved it aside. That was his last question for now. She jotted one last bit and showed him before leaving the board at the bedside: _You can rest but don’t lie on your side or lean your head sideways, nurses will check on you regularly._ Then she was gone.

Adam sat back, looked over at the whiteboard; his only means of easy communication with the world around him, for the next few days at least. He wiped away the doctor’s reminder but otherwise let it be. He wouldn’t need it for a while. Nothing to do but wait.

* * *

Out in the wastes something gasped a breath of life. Forced back to the surface from a drowning of the mind. Alive.

More than alive, it was awake. Free from the prison of its lucid nightmare, waking in full to the world. A hive buzzed at the back of its head, but it was deaf to the droning. Its thoughts were its own now, it had all the time it could want to think them.

Things could go slow now, slow back to the way they were. It was content to wait, to be patient while on the mend.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another reminder/warning that this work is Unfinished! At time of posting I am not actively working on this fic, but wanted to share the parts that were relatively presentable. (Hopefully this will impel me to finish the dang thing one day, but we'll see.) As an old and unfinished work, readers may note that the style differs from some of my other more recent works.
> 
> Please enjoy, and moreso than ever, please leave a comment if you did!

It was nice to have Kitty around for company, but her writing was atrocious. Someone had the idea of leaving a pad of paper and a pen near Adam’s cot, so he didn’t have to share the whiteboard to converse. He and Kitty had been writing back and forth in intermittent chats for the past two days. He had grown accustomed to her chicken-scratch.

Some time in the morning of his third day in Cleanup’s infirmary, he and Kitty had taken breakfast together, now she doodled aimlessly while he sat in contemplation. The medical staff said he was recovering well; he could hear faintly through the dressings over his ears and his balance was slowly returning. He was only partially bedridden- he couldn’t walk straight.

Kitty nudged him with the paper pad; her sketch was a ballpoint scribble of a cabin by a lake. She smiled a request for his opinion, though he couldn’t really appraise her drawing, he was more one for music. He tried to smile back- he had been hiding his ennui before -but the gesture failed.

She frowned and wrote him a message: _Should I leave you alone?_

The last word bothered him, but he nodded. As she left, he took the pillow from behind his back and hugged it. He sat against the headboard and pressed his face to the pillow. Another dizzy spell. Blended with the stress and boredom it made an unpleasant cocktail.

Kitty didn’t come back that day. He was left wondering if his mood had been contagious or if she’d just had enough of him. The nurses had him stand and walk a bit; he was much steadier now. That morning’s spell had been the last in a long while.

The following morning the bandages came off. There were tests; high and low pitches, different volumes, music he didn’t care for but was glad to hear. They told him he was fit for the field again.

Callista received a hug when he met her in the hall. Before she had even spoken the Acaprian was blushing beneath her awkward spots, frozen stiff in a tight embrace.

“Adam? What’s this about?” muffled against his chest.

“I have no idea,” he held her at arm’s length, “Sorry. Just glad to see you again.”

“And hear me, right?” She waggled one ear, “You’re all fixed up?”

“That’s what they’ve told me.”

“Good, ‘cause Holmes wants you back and Saito wants to talk to you.”

“Cleanup’s Colonel?”

“Yessir.’  
“Good, I’ve been wanting to talk to him, too.”

Adam started left, Callista righted him, pulling along the hall. He stumbled for a moment before catching up with her trot. She was still blushing, the back of her ears red. No great beauty by her species’ standards, his attention flustered her. She thought her piebald speckles unsightly.

“Tell me what I’ve missed.” He had to settle her down.

“At Charlie? Not a whole lot. Yesterday the first set of reinforcements went back, I’ve brought up a crew to replace the rest.” She glanced back, “Kitty says ‘hi’.”

“Thanks. What about the casualty you brought in? Has he said anything yet?”

The Acaprian shook her head, “Still in bad shape, think he’s got the sickness pretty bad. Merlin was looking after him for a bit. He was worried about you, too.”

“Well if I stayed deaf at least I wouldn’t have to listen to him snore.” She raised an eyebrow and he tried to laugh, “Ah- never mind.”

Colonel Saito, small and nervous, almost forgot formality when the pair saluted him at the door of his makeshift office.

“Yes, Commander, come in. Callista, Lieutenant Dawson wanted your help with something, he’s around back. Do you mind?”

She squinted. Adam knew what the Colonel was up to. He nodded to her, “Go on, I’ll catch up.” Callista nodded, departed. Adam took up her squint at the Colonel. “Was that really necessary?”

“Malkovich...” Saito pressed his hands together as if in prayer, “I’m so sorry.”

Adam leaned forward onto the desk, lessening the height gap. “They broke the back wall. What did they take?”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Saito.”

“They took her. What was left of her.” The tips of his praying fingers touched his lips. “I don’t know how they knew she was here- the recovery crew wasn’t followed- it was so quiet- they came out of nowhere-”

“Saito-”

“I’m so sorry.”

“ _Colonel._ ” perhaps too loud, the shorter man stared. “Where did they go?” still too loud. Staring. Adam lowered his voice, “Where did they go?”

“I don’t know. We couldn’t spare the men to scout, we had to make repairs in case of another attack.” The Commander took a slow breath. “They took the whole thing, they couldn’t have gone far with it-”

“It won’t be a problem. She’s...” a word nearly choked him, he changed it. “She’s gone. It won’t be a problem. Our first priority is getting everything back in order here. How’s the base?”

“It’s coming together, we had to scrap some equipment to patch the hole, but the wall is mended. Holmes sent us a fresh thirty for garrison. In two shifts, of course; the second half goes back to Charlie today. You’re to go with them, according to Holmes.”

“Is Callista staying, then?”

“No, I think she’s heading back too. I’ve got my officers here. We can handle things.”

Of course they could. “I should get going, then.”

“Oh, before you do- uhh...” Colonel Saito did a quick search of the mess that was his office, producing a small box by the end. “Here, I heard you’re short some basics at Charlie. Sorry we couldn’t spare much more.”

Adam popped the box open. Soap, razors and spare blades. A kind gesture, it softened something in him. “Thank you, Colonel. The guys will appreciate this.”

“Send Holmes my thanks for the help.”

“I will.”

* * *

Adam took the time to neaten himself up before he left; a shower and shave. Cleanup had better facilities. He felt better after. Marginally.

Konstantin liked to tease him about his lack of a beard, something about him not being a ‘full-blooded Rusky.’ It wasn’t his fault he took after his mother’s side of the family.

He studied himself in the mirror. He looked tired, and paler than normal- that was the stress at work. He could feel it creeping into him, the unease before falling ill. He was going to get sick soon. Hopefully just a cold. Anything more and he’d be stuck at base fending off cabin fever.

“What’s wrong with you...?”

He leaned closer, looked himself in the eye. Russian blue. Except-

“No.”

Closer. What was that? He rubbed his eyes, closed one then the other. That hadn’t been there before. A dark fleck in his iris, a tiny grain of inky blue. Right eye. How?

He rubbed his eyes again- stalling. That’s how. He looked at his right hand.

“...Idiot...”

It was small, it would go unnoticed. Best to ignore it, it shouldn’t get worse.

Callista waited by a full transport. He was stopped on his way out, a Private in Marine armour. She called out and jogged to him.

“Commander Malkovich, wait! Here,” she handed him something. “Colonel Saito didn’t want you to leave without it. It’s been waiting for you since you dropped it.”

It was a familiar weight in his hand. He didn’t have to look down to know what he’d been given. Still, he gave it a glance. It looked happy to see him; if a bit sullen, perhaps, at being left behind. _Sabre_ had rejoined its master.

* * *

Callista drove nearly standing up. Rubber-shod hooves strained for the pedals while her spotted neck craned to keep dark eyes peering over the dash. Adam rode shotgun, one arm out the open window.

“You sure you don’t want me to drive?”

“No, I got it.”

He sifted the dusty air with his hand. “Holmes will have a fit if he sees you driving like that.”

“I drove out here and there wasn’t any problem.”

“At least adjust the seat.”

“It’s not that far.”

He knew better than to argue, he’d never win. A jab about phone books floated around in the back of his mind but he stifled that too. No one used paper directories anymore.

“So how bad was it? Since Saito seemed so eager to get rid of me.”

Adam rubbed grit between his fingers. “You know Aran’s dead, right?”

Callista kept her eyes on the path ahead, “Yeah.”

“The screamers broke into Cleanup and took what was left of her, container and all. Don’t know why Saito didn’t want you knowing.”

“Are you worried?”

“Why would I be worried?”

Callista looked over long enough to see the back of his head, practically leaning out the window. “Are you, though?”

“Why would I be?” Adam ducked into his seat before the transport took a bump. He brushed dust off his arm and rolled up his window part way. “When we get back, I’ll ask Holmes about taking a squad to see where they went.”

“He’s not going to let you go.”

“There’s no harm in asking.”

“I disagree.” Callista braked hard and the transport scraped to a halt just outside Charlie warehouse. There were brief complaints from those riding in the back bed before they disembarked. The Acaprian undid her seatbelt and lounged back, kicking up her hooves onto the dashboard. “If Holmes thinks there’s anything personal about this, he’s not going to let you leave the base.”

Adam got out of the cab in a rush. “It’s not personal.”

“Then why are you getting upset?”

“I’m not.” It took effort not to slam the door. Callista yawned and stretched as he made his way to her side of the vehicle. “Aren’t you getting out?”

She folded her arms behind her head. “I thought I’d give you a head start on embarrassing yourself in front of the Colonel. I’ll run damage control when you’re done.”

He actually smiled. “You’re a good friend, Callista.”


	6. Chapter 6 (Incomplete)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another reminder/warning that this work is Unfinished! At time of posting I am not actively working on this fic, but wanted to share the parts that were relatively presentable. (Hopefully this will impel me to finish the dang thing one day, but we'll see.) As an old and unfinished work, readers may note that the style differs from some of my other more recent works.
> 
> Please enjoy, and moreso than ever, please leave a comment if you did!

Holmes neglected to ask for a report, instead directing Adam to try to talk to the casualty from Bravo. He said the medics still wanted him to keep his distance, but he suspected Adam could somehow charm his way past them. “You’re good at that,” he said.

Doubtful but dutiful, Adam made his attempt. One of the medics gave him a look, but they relented. It seemed it was only Holmes they wanted to keep away. The Bravo casualty was kept apart from the other passing patients, a wall of crates between them. He struggled to sit up as Adam approached.

“Oh thank God. Company.”

Adam motioned him to lie back and sat down on the concrete beside him. “Is this what passes for quarantine around here?”

“They were stricter before, probably.” He rolled his eyes, the whites now nearly black. “They’ve loosened up now that they know I’m on my way out.”

His state was beyond sickness. This soldier, too, bore the marks of corruption; the stained eyes and black veins that crept up from beneath the collar of his uniform. He wanted to say it didn’t look that bad, but thought better of it. This man already knew he was dying.

“What’s your name?”

“Robert Grace...the only Grace with two left feet, the guys would’ve told you.” He looked down, a reverent pause. “You?”

“Adam.”

Grace raised an eyebrow and made a circular gesture. “Go on, drop the other one.”

“Adam Malkovich.”

“No kidding...” Grace took a moment to look him over. Adam didn’t like being studied by those discoloured eyes. “You know I always kind of imagined you’d be bigger, like-” a vague gesture for a broader shape- hands quaking. Adam allowed himself a smile.

“I know, I get that a lot actually. The name throws people off, I guess; they hear it an expect some burly Russian guy. Sorry to disappoint.”

“No it’s...” Grace half-laughed, coughed, “It’s ok. I think I like you better this way, you’re easier to talk to...” Blank black eyes. “Thank-you for coming to talk to me.”

“I was under the impression you didn’t want to talk, or you weren’t able.”

“At first, yeah. I guess I was pretty out of it when I got here, I don’t have any clear memory until about two days ago. The medics told me they had me isolated in case I infected anyone else.” He scratched under his collar, giving a brief glimpse of the black webbing beneath. “They stopped worrying when they were sure I didn’t have the madness. Just kind of been sitting around since.”

“Holmes has been wanting to talk to you, but they’ve been holding him back. Was that your choice?”

“Yeah. Screw him.” Grace leaned back on his prop of pillows and closed his eyes. He pressed his fingers to his temples. “He just wants his damage report. He doesn’t care about what really happened, he just wants his numbers. So screw him.” Black eyes opened; a look lost somewhere beyond the skylight above. “When I bite it, he’ll have his numbers: Total loss.”

“You were the last?”

Grace folded his hands on his chest, closed his eyes over a hint of tears. “Yeah...”

‘I’m sorry’ would have sounded insincere. Adam offered a respectful silence instead. An entire camp wiped- Holmes wouldn’t like to hear that report, and poor Grace couldn’t handle the burden of giving it.

The injured soldier breathed a long and quiet sigh, then a mournful whisper. “I don’t want to die in this warehouse...” When he sat forward, he rubbed his face, colour returned for a moment to features that were beginning to look frostbitten. “That other guy, Merlin or something, he a friend of yours?”

“Yes. I heard he spent some time looking after you?”

“When I was still kind of out of it, he volunteered to keep an eye on me. He’d talk to me so I knew there was someone with me, just talk about stuff. He talked about you a little bit. Sounded worried...” A tiny smile, “Bit of a mother hen, that guy, eh?”

Adam shrugged, not disagreeing. Konstantin had a peculiar affectionate streak that way; if someone struck his fancy he would tend after them, as Grace said, like a mother hen. Adam had the mixed fortune to be one such individual, it seemed the newcomer was as well.

Grace slouched back, one shaking hand rose slowly to his mouth. He shut his eyes tightly, jerking forward with a noise like a sob.

“Grace?”

Grace sat forward, doubled over. Another noise, this one half-whine, half-cough.

“ _Grace?_ Medic!”

[Sadly this chapter is incomplete at time of posting. Thank-you for reading.]


End file.
